


Dens Sapientiae

by Kate_Lear



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-10
Updated: 2011-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-19 05:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/7277.html?thread=34898797#t34898797">this prompt</a> on the sherlockbbc-fic kinkmeme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dens Sapientiae

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much to innie_darling, who patiently spent a really disproportionate amount of time listening to me go on about this. Also, while this is so short that I'd hesitate to call it a _proper_ sequel to [_There's A First Time For Everything_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/184275), the OC in here is taken from there. Just a random, useless bit of trivia for you...

It took six weeks of wincing at every incautious gulp of tea or coffee before John finally heeded Sherlock’s increasingly insistent suggestions and made an appointment at the dentist. And when he came home from said appointment, he complained bitterly. Sherlock had to listen to that as well, but he didn’t really mind. He was vaguely aware that being in a relationship required the exchange of mundane snippets of information and anyway, said snippets were somehow never as mundane when they concerned John.

‘Cavities! In _two_ of my wisdom teeth! He said that they’ll have to come out!’

‘Well, you should have been more regular with your check-ups,’ murmured Sherlock, utterly absorbed in adding drops of sodium hydroxide to the solution and watching for the first signs of precipitate forming.

‘Oh piss off, Sherlock. I was in the middle of the fucking desert getting shot at; access to a good dentist was a bit limited.’

Such profanity – without a good cause – was unlike John, and Sherlock lifted his head to study his lover.

‘You’re afraid,’ he said at last, blinking in surprise. John had invaded another country, been shot, and now chased criminals on a weekly basis; surely the dentist was nothing by comparison. ‘You don’t like going to the dentist. Trust issues again? Not happy about having to lie still and let someone poke around inside your mouth with sharp objects?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. No-one likes going to the bloody dentist,’ John grumbled. ‘And that one was obviously an idiot. I’m getting a second opinion. Christ, as if being bloody well _stabbed_ wasn’t enough for one year…’

But when the second dentist delivered the same verdict, John had no choice but to agree to a hospital referral.

\----------

The morning he was due to go in for surgery, John was irritable and short-tempered in a way that Sherlock had never seen before, not from John. After being snapped at twice – once for a well-intentioned joke about the effect that removing wisdom teeth would have on John’s intelligence, and then again for pointing out that John was a doctor and should know that things hardly _ever_ went wrong with such routine operations – Sherlock retreated to the kitchen to poke at his experiments in silence and reflect that doctors really _did_ make the worst patients.

Just before he had to leave for the hospital, John came to stand in the kitchen doorway and fidget with his jacket sleeve.

‘You won’t forget to come and meet me, will you?’

‘No, I won’t,’ Sherlock said, for what felt like the tenth time that morning.

‘They want to give me a general anaesthetic, so I’ll probably be pretty out of it.’

‘Yes, I know. You told me,’ Sherlock said, pleased with his own patience and for quelling the urge to point out that there was nothing wrong with his hearing _or_ his memory, and how much he hated unnecessary repetition. And the fact that it made him oddly uncomfortable every time John reminded him that bright scalpels were about to slice into his living flesh… well, that was neither here nor there. He dealt with blood and organic tissue on an almost daily basis; it was _ridiculous_ to get sentimental over it just because it was John’s, but there was apparently nothing to be done.

‘Right. Good.’

John didn’t move from the doorway, and after a short, tense silence Sherlock walked over and pulled him into a hug, folding him tightly in his arms as John’s hands fisted in the back of his shirt. He nuzzled a kiss into the clean-smelling hair just above John’s ear, and knew he’d felt it from the way John’s arms tightened around him.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he murmured. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

Almost immediately John drew back, clearing his throat and twitching his jacket straight.

‘No, don’t be daft,’ he said, with a forced laugh. ‘Of course I’ll be fine.’ He patted his pockets to check for wallet and keys, and said, ‘I’m not worried. It’s just a hassle, that’s all.’

‘Right,’ Sherlock agreed, thinking _Wrong. Finding that we’ve run out of tea when you want your first cup of the day is a hassle. This looks completely different._

‘Come on then.’ Abruptly, Sherlock grabbed his own coat off its hook and pulled it on. John might say he didn’t need company, but the least Sherlock could do was to accompany him part of the way. ‘I’ll share a taxi with you – I’m off to Bart’s for a few hours, and then I’ll come and pick you up later.’

\----------

When he left the hospital, after a _very_ useful few hours involving hydrochloric acid and the late Mr. Henderson’s toes, his self-congratulations on having plenty of time to get across London and meet John were interrupted by his mobile buzzing. Repeatedly.

When he fished it out of his pocket, mildly curious, he found three missed calls from John and four texts. It wasn’t the first time, and surely wouldn’t be the last, that Sherlock had cursed the fact that there was no mobile reception in the depths of Bart’s morgue, and he frowned as he opened the earliest text.

_Please call me when you get this. JW_

The next one, sent almost immediately after the first one:

_The op before mine has been cancelled. They’re talking about taking me in sooner than expected. Would be done an hour early. Can you still meet me? JW_

Then:

_Christ, Sherlock, pick up your bloody phone!_

The last one read:

_Yep, they’re taking me in early. PLEASE come as soon as you can. I don’t want to be hanging around in a hospital waiting room trying not to fall asleep for ages. JW_

He looked at the time on the last text and then, chewing his lip in concern, he dialled John’s mobile and waited with bated breath for it to connect.

A voice answered him. ‘Hello?’

It was deep, masculine, and definitely _not John_ , and Sherlock’s grip on his phone tightened reflexively.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘Where’s John? Put him on.’

There was a pause, and then the man said, ‘You must be Sherlock. John’s fine, I’ve brought him back to your flat.’

‘How do you know where we live? Why did John call you?’

Sherlock cut himself off when it became obvious that the man on the phone was no longer paying any attention to him. He heard the gentle murmur of conversation in the background and was forced to stand there, fuming, until the man returned and said, ‘Look–’

‘Put John on the phone,’ Sherlock interrupted. ‘I want to speak to John _right now_.’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ growled the unidentified voice, ‘bloody well calm down. John’s _fine_ , but he’s not in any state to be talking to you. Just come back to your flat, okay? And be quiet when you come in. And pick up some paracetamol on your way. And soup.’

\----------

When Sherlock finally got back to their flat, after waiting an unreasonable amount of time for a taxi and almost losing his temper with the length of the queue in the corner shop, he took the stairs two at a time. It was an effort to open the door quietly, instead of bursting in, but he managed it and what he saw inside made him stop dead, momentarily speechless.

A strange man was half-reclining on their sofa, long legs stretched out and his back propped up against one of the armrests. And John – quiet, reserved John, who was politely formal with almost everyone, and shied away from casual touches with people he didn’t know – was snuggled up to him. He was lying between the man’s legs and had his head pillowed on the man’s ridiculously broad chest, fingers curled loosely into the material of the man’s shirt, and sleeping the sleep of the blissfully drugged.

John had stripped – or _been_ stripped, Sherlock thought darkly – down to his T-shirt, and someone had tucked a blanket round him. Doubtless the same someone who was even now idly stroking John’s hair with one large, gentle hand while the other pointed the television control and flicked through the channels, sound carefully muted.

It was on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue to ask, _Just who the hell are you?_ but he stopped himself. Now that he could see who he had been speaking to on the phone, he knew who it was. He recognised him from old photographs that he had stumbled across from John’s time at university.

It was his ex-boyfriend, Robert Holden, with whom John had been in a relationship for almost a year before breaking up. According to John – gentle, friendly soul that he was – the split had been entirely amicable and they still kept in touch in a desultory fashion. Obviously, that occasional contact was warm enough that the man had agreed to remain listed as John’s emergency contact on his medical records, Sherlock realised with a burst of venom. He couldn’t understand why John would want to remain in contact with someone who had been so utterly _stupid_ as to let him go, but then Sherlock had been trying and failing for months now to understand some of John’s quirks.

Sherlock _hated_ that it had been such a calm, rational separation, and that John had been so reasonable about it all. He would have much preferred it to have been the sort of break-up that involved broken plates and slammed doors and shouted declarations of never wanting to see each other again. Passionate, yes, but unmistakeably _over_.

When he’d prodded John for more information on his past relationships, they had been lying in bed at three in the afternoon, and John had a soft, pleasantly fuzzy post-coital look to him. He divulged the information easily enough, but Sherlock hadn’t been prepared for how jealous he would feel. It was ridiculous – the relationship was long dead and buried – but it seemed that considering it rationally wasn’t as much help as it usually was. He had had just enough tact not to say anything, but John had seen something in his face that made him laugh and bury his fingers in Sherlock’s dishevelled hair.

‘Relax,’ John had said, pulling him up for a kiss, ‘I’m with you now.’ He rolled Sherlock onto his back and settled on top of him, rubbing at Sherlock’s stomach. ‘Why do you ask these questions if you don’t want to know the answers?’

At the time Sherlock had stayed silent, unable for once to find anything to say, but now he stalked across the sitting room to stare disdainfully at the man and say, ‘Robert Holden, I presume.’

Holden frowned and held a finger to his lips and yes, fine, perhaps Sherlock’s voice had been just a touch too loud but _really_. It wasn’t every day that he came home to find John curled up with an ex-boyfriend on his own bloody sofa.

‘Yes,’ Holden said, offering a hand that Sherlock didn’t deign to take. ‘And you must be Sherlock.’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said tightly. ‘John’s _boyfriend_.’

‘I know. John’s mentioned you.’

The barely-concealed amusement in the man’s voice was utterly infuriating. For God’s sake, he didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

‘What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?’

Heavy eyebrows raised at Sherlock’s peremptory tone, but Holden merely nodded towards the large, empty bowl on the floor by the sofa and answered, ‘He’s still too dizzy to sit up properly, and lying down flat makes him want to vomit.’

‘So persuading him to drape himself all over you was the solution, was it?’

‘Look,’ Holden gave him a sharp look, patience finally beginning to wear thin, ‘it’s not what you’re thinking.’ He held up his left hand to show a gold band on his fourth finger. ‘I’m _married_.’

‘I see,’ Sherlock said, before adding nastily: ‘And does your _wife_ know you’re here? Curled up so cosily with your ex-boyfriend?’

‘Husband, actually,’ Holden retorted, ‘and yes, not that it’s any of your business, but he does.’ He replaced his left hand on the nape of John’s neck and began stroking his hair again. John had given a soft, complaining moan at the loss of sensation and when Holden started again he murmured contentedly in a way that made Sherlock grit his teeth, almost missing the continuation: ‘I had to come up to London for the day anyway, and when I got the phone call from the hospital that John needed someone to take him home, then of course I came over to help him. So calm down.’

Holden sighed, his hand never stopping its soothing motion through John’s hair, and muttered, ‘Christ, I never would have thought that _John_ would end up with someone so high-maintenance.’

Before Sherlock could reply to this ridiculous and patently untrue statement, John stirred and murmured, ‘Sherlock?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said immediately, squatting so that his face was on a level with John’s and trying to ignore the faint, unfamiliar scents of sandalwood and oil paints that clung to the stranger on their sofa. John’s eyelids flickered, then opened.

‘Sherlock!’

John beamed at him, looking utterly delighted to see him and seemingly not finding anything wrong with his current position. Sherlock wondered just how incompetent the anaesthetist must have been, or whether it was standard NHS practice to drug patients so much.

‘Sherlock, this is Rob,’ John slurred happily. ‘Rob’s nice. He brought me home.’

‘So I see,’ Sherlock said, watching John’s eyelids droop in sleepy pleasure as fingers ran over his nape, and fighting an urge to smack Holden’s hand away.

‘He’s an artist,’ John confided, lowering his voice as though said artist was sitting decorously at one end of the sofa and John at the other. Since John was actually _lying on top of the man_ then murmuring wouldn’t make the _slightest_ bit of difference, but John looked so blissfully happy that Sherlock found that he didn’t have the heart to point this out to him. ‘He draws. He’s good at drawing. He used to draw _me_.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ve seen the sketches,’ Sherlock said tightly, and got a savage satisfaction when Holden flushed.

‘I _like_ Rob,’ John said happily, obviously feeling less pain than either of the other men at that moment, and Sherlock couldn’t stop himself snapping, ‘ _Clearly_ ,’ as he stood up abruptly.

Instantly, John’s face crumpled with concern. He began to struggle into a sitting position but stopped before he was halfway there, his eyes flying to the bowl on the floor as he paled, and Holden glared at Sherlock.

‘No, don’t,’ Sherlock said, squatting back down immediately to put a steadying hand on John’s shoulder and really, their relationship must be rotting his brain because what other explanation could there be for the way he was coaxing John to lie back down on the other man’s chest? ‘Just stay where you are until the after-effects wear off. You’ll be ill if you try to get up now. Try and sleep some more.’

‘All right,’ John agreed reluctantly, his eyes already drifting closed. ‘For a minute there, I thought you were angry.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ said Sherlock, lying through his teeth and ignoring Holden now looking pointedly at the other side of the room, his face caught between irritation and amusement. Leaning in, Sherlock placed a gentle kiss between John’s eyebrows, smoothing out the tiny lingering frown. He stroked John’s hair back from his forehead, and John’s contented sigh was warm against his cheek.

He straightened up, looking down at John snuggled once more against Holden’s chest, and wondered whether this was the first sign of mental degeneration. Surely no reasonable person would have done such a thing.

When he shifted his gaze from John’s sleeping face, he found Holden watching him. His expression was thoughtful, almost assessing, but when Sherlock met his eyes it vanished and he said blandly, ‘Tea would be nice, if you’re putting the kettle on.’

‘Don’t push your luck,’ Sherlock growled, and stalked off towards the kitchen.

\----------

It was an hour later that he finally heard movement from the sitting room. There was a murmur of voices, one deeper than the other, and then after a few minutes Holden leaned around the kitchen doorframe and said, ‘I’m just going. John’s feeling better, although still a bit crap.’

‘Right. Yes. Fine,’ Sherlock said, not looking up from his microscope.

There was a pause, and then Holden said quietly, ‘I’d tell you to be good to him but, after watching that little display there, I suspect you already are.’

Oh really, this was intolerable. Sherlock whipped his head up to give the man his best glare. ‘Don’t you have a train to catch?’

‘All right, yes, fine.’ Holden rolled his eyes and left. There was a last parting murmur of voices from the sitting room before all went quiet.

Five minutes later John stumbled into the kitchen, looking rumpled and tired. He grunted a vague greeting at Sherlock, and then went to switch the kettle on and get out a mug and a teabag, closing his eyes and leaning against the kitchen counter while he waited for it to boil.

Sherlock had intended to comment about the fact that John clearly liked to keep on _very_ good terms with his exes, or demand why the hell John hadn’t given _Sherlock’s_ phone number to the hospital, but when he spoke he found himself saying, ‘Go and lie back down. I’ll bring it to you when it’s done.’

‘Really?’

It was slightly insulting how surprised John sounded, as though Sherlock had never in his life spared him a second thought and hadn’t, just last week, held John tightly against him and murmured nonsense into his ear while John trembled through the aftermath of a nightmare. But John looked so pathetically grateful that Sherlock said only, ‘Of course I will.’

Sherlock switched off his microscope when the kettle clicked off, made tea to John’s taste, and took a mug through into their sitting room. John was huddled on one end of the sofa, blanket pulled around his shoulders and looking miserable.

‘How are you feeling?’ Sherlock asked, sitting next to John and handing him the tea.

‘Tired,’ John said, taking a cautious mouthful and listing until he was leaning against Sherlock’s side. ‘Just tired.’

When John was finished, he put the mug back down on their coffee table and then leaned harder against Sherlock. ‘Can you lie down?’ he murmured.

‘Of course.’

Sherlock quickly swung his legs up onto the sofa until, with a bit of reshuffling, he was lying back with John sprawled on top of him. He reached out to pull the bowl closer to the edge of the sofa.

‘If you’re going to be ill then please don’t do it on my shirt. I’ve just had it cleaned.’

‘What?’ John blinked at him and then looked away, flushing slightly. He rubbed at his nose as he said, ‘Oh, I see. No, I’m not feeling ill. I just thought… maybe we could lie here for a bit. If you’re not in the middle of anything.’

‘Oh. Right. Yes, that’s… that would be… fine.’

John lay back down, tucking his head under Sherlock’s chin, and Sherlock tilted his face up towards the ceiling, glad that John couldn’t see his fatuous smile, and felt a swell of affection.

Gently, he cupped his hand over the curve of John’s skull, stroking his fingers through the soft hair, and felt more than heard John’s hitching sigh.

Holden might be John’s emergency contact – and he’d have to see what Mycroft could do about that – but Sherlock was still the person John wanted to curl up with, in sickness and in health.

And that, he thought, made all the difference.

\--End--


End file.
